


Out of the Cold

by goseaward



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Plot What Plot, middle-of-the-night sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 06:39:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1256539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goseaward/pseuds/goseaward
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the LJ community come-at-once, for the prompt "the dead don't tell lies".  Sleepy middle-of-the-night sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of the Cold

John yawned, stretched, settled his head further into the pillow to warm his cold nose. Felt a breeze stirring his eyelashes; opened his eyes, to see Sherlock staring at him from three inches away.

"Morning," Sherlock said.

"What time is it?"

"Five."

"Jesus," John said, on the back of another yawn. "Did somebody die?"

"Approximately 400 people in the UK since you went to sleep, given the population and average death rate. But I don't know of any person in particular."

"All right."

Sherlock continued staring at him through the dim gloom of the bedroom. His stomach was striped with light from the street lamps, leaking in where John hadn't fully closed the curtains. He was naked. Typical.

"So why did you wake me up?" John asked.

"I didn't. I was merely—"

"Staring at me from three inches away, which you know will wake me up."

Sherlock ignored him. "Your eyes. Navy blue. Like your old jeans. I like them." He probably didn't even have color vision at this light level, the mad bastard.

"Last week they reminded you of trumpet gentians. And you hate gentians."

"Last week I was bored."

"You're still bored."

"We solved a murder on Monday. I'm not bored." 

"Yeah, solved, past tense. You're bored."

Sherlock flopped onto his back, managing to twist so his shoulder was pressed to John's chest. "You're projecting." John wondered where he'd picked up that bit of amateur psychology. "You're upset about the case on Monday, so you assume I'm upset."

"No, I assume you're bored." He didn't touch...the other thing. It was true.

"Would it have been better to let that boy be raised by a murderer?"

"The murderer was his father," John said. "I don't know. Do we need to talk about this right now?"

"He was already learning to lie for his father. His mother, though..."

John said, quietly, "His mother's body." 

"Well. There you are. That was true."

Abruptly, through the patchy fog of sleep shrouding his brain, John realized that this was probably Sherlock's version of talking about problems. It was sweet, in a way, but John was still going to find every pop psychology book in the flat and toss it. They worked just fine as they were. "I'm fine," he said. "Do you want to sleep?"

"No." Sherlock writhed dramatically. Not bored, John's arse. It was a nice view, though.

John yawned again, half-experimentally. Sherlock didn't join him; John wondered if sheer irritation was enough to suppress the instinct. "What do you want to do, then?"

"Watch you sleep."

"Or sleep with me?"

"I just said—" John could practically _see_ his brain switch gears. "Oh. Well—"

John gave in to the pull and leaned up over Sherlock to kiss him. It was almost too warm under the covers, and through his T-shirt John could feel the heat of Sherlock's chest, all that hectic energy made flesh. Sherlock's lips were animated by the same impulse, not content to be still for the fond kiss John wanted to give him, but grabbing it, firing it up with intent, turning it to nips and a flash of tongue. John rolled entirely on top of him, pushing one arm beneath his shoulders and grabbing a fistful of that wild hair to yank his head back and expose his tender throat. A groan vibrated out of Sherlock's larynx and through John's teeth as he applied them.

Sherlock's arms came down along his back and slipped into the waistband of his boxers for a firm grope that was so shameless it almost made John laugh. The height difference, John supposed, had its advantages. He licked along Sherlock's collarbone and back up below Sherlock's ear, which tickled though Sherlock would never admit it—but John could feel the little shakes starting in Sherlock's belly. He indulged in a long caress of Sherlock's interested prick.

"You should sleep naked," Sherlock rumbled as he started to peel the T-shirt up John's back.

John stuck his tongue in Sherlock's ear just to hear the disgusted noise he always made. "You should sleep at all."

"Your methods of persuasion are unconvincing."

"Yours don't work particularly well, either." John sat up and Sherlock pulled the shirt right over his head. 

"You're getting naked. I'm still awake."

"This isn't persuasion, this is assault."

Sherlock grinned. "Yes, it is." He rolled, which dumped John onto his back; then his fingers hooked into John's waistband and the boxers were gone, thrown somewhere off the end of the bed. John's cock, freed, fell against his lower belly, mostly hard already. This far away in the dark he couldn't see Sherlock's eyes, but he knew the expression in them whenever he got John naked: greedy, awed. If Sherlock wondered why John slept clothed, it was because of the way he looked when he got to strip John for himself. Sherlock flattened himself between John's legs, cock bumping against the inside of John's left thigh, face above John's own where John could see him better. 

"Hi," John said.

Sherlock didn't answer, just kissed the corner of his mouth.

John turned his head a little and came back in for a real kiss, which Sherlock returned. Sherlock's kisses, like Sherlock's body, always held the things he didn't say, and John enjoyed this one to its proper extent, long and messy. He rolled his hips to get a little friction against Sherlock's stomach, and Sherlock responded by slipping his hand underneath them both to rub, lightly, between John's cheeks: a question. John nodded.

Slowly, Sherlock ended the kiss, then tweaked John's nipples hard before leaning over to grab the lube from the drawer. "Ow, you bastard," John said, laughing. Sherlock only smiled. "You could kiss it better," John added.

Sherlock just rolled his eyes, but applied his tongue to a nipple anyway as two fingers slid their way down John's perineum and into his arse. Sherlock sucked the nipple into his mouth and set up a dual rhythm: pull his fingers out, suck harder, push back in, release pressure, repeat. A good, satisfying rhythm, though not as satisfying as what was coming. John spread his thighs and wormed one hand between them to tug on his neglected cock. Sherlock growled at him—maybe he wanted a similar favour?—but there were a few too many limbs in the area, and a few too many inches in the height difference, to make that feasible. Sherlock bit the nipple he was working on and went to the other one peevishly; John just grinned, since it felt too good to do anything else.

"Come on, gorgeous, that's enough," John said. Sherlock scowled at the endearment and had a go with three fingers instead. Not really necessary, but pleasurable. John squeezed his cock and rode Sherlock's hand, enjoying the feeling of those clever fingers slipping past his prostate. Generally they hurried through the preparation to get to the fucking faster, which John usually preferred, but this approach had its benefits as well. Sherlock dragged his tongue down John's stomach and took the head of his cock into his mouth. Also a nice change from the usual routine, if dangerous to his stamina. John fed his cock slowly into Sherlock's mouth and then scratched carefully in the hair along Sherlock's hairline and around his ears, just where Sherlock liked it. The right ear was still a little damp with John's saliva.

Just about enough, now, or this would be over before it was begun. He squeezed around Sherlock's fingers. Sherlock made a funny half-strangled huffy noise around John's cock and pulled back, leaving John cold and exposed until he got his cock slicked up. He came back down and slid into John's body, covering him again, warm and solid.

John grabbed him by the hair and pulled his head down next to John's own, his chin resting on John's shoulder. John moaned and then Sherlock did, that deep voice vibrating through both their lungs, conjoined. His hips were moving, a smooth practiced slide for both of them by now, and John grabbed his cock between their bodies and stroked. Sherlock moaned again at the brush of John's knuckles against his belly. He moved and John moved with him. One of John's favorite things, this melding of bodies, the paired action and reaction when every movement dragged skin on skin.

They didn't last long—couldn't; John was half asleep and sensitive, Sherlock nervy and uncertain about John, and they hadn't had sex since the case. But it was good, and more than good, and by the time John was shuddering with a mouthful of Sherlock's shoulder and Sherlock was slamming his hands against the headboard and settling as deep within John as he could go, John was feeling much, much better about the world.

Sherlock's elbows gave out, leaving most of his weight supported by John, rather like a hot and sweaty blanket. John nosed through the hair near Sherlock's ear and rubbed his back. "Still bored?"

"I wasn't bored," Sherlock said, mulishly and, miraculously, sleepily.

John rolled them both over and then got up. The room felt even more chilly in contrast than it had before. He tossed the box of tissues at Sherlock and padded off to the bathroom to clean up, working by touch so he wouldn't have to readjust to the dim lighting. 

Amazing, how grounding sex could be. He felt more normal than he had in a couple of days, though he wouldn't have said he was upset before this. But just that human connection—that connection with Sherlock, in particular—already made him feel more settled within himself. He wondered if it worked the same for Sherlock; he wondered if he'd ever know.

By the time he came back to the room, Sherlock was limp and breathing deeply. John smiled and put his T-shirt back on, just on principle, giving up the boxers for lost in the deeper darkness at the foot of the bed. He slid back into the bed and pulled the blankets up around them, leaving the two of them cocooned together against the unfriendly world outside. Just before he nodded off again, he felt Sherlock's fingertips gently come to rest against the edge of his hip. Anchoring, desired.


End file.
